3/17

3/17

a parody by

Mary Pat Hyland

* * *

Smashwords edition

Copyright 2011 Mary Pat Hyland

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, location and plot are the creation of the author and should not be considered real. Although inspired by real life experiences, the characters in this novel (except for the public figures whose part in the story line is entirely fictional) do not exist and any resemblance to persons living or dead is unintentional and coincidental.

For Brian & Peggy Hyland, in fond remembrance of surviving 3/17 performances past.

With deepest gratitude to my editors Anne, Sheila, Brian, Kate, Dáithí & Patty; cover designer Jocelyn Bailey; Ingrid, for location logistics; Comhaltas Ceoltoirí Éireann for keeping the path of true Irish music alive; and to Liz, LunaJoon and the Triple Cities Writers Group for their encouragement and inspiration. Cover photograph by Mary Pat Hyland.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter 2: Entering the First Fainne

Lexicon of Irish Words and Slang

About the Author

Other Works

Bonus: Sample from The Terminal Diner

~ With apologies to Dante Alighieri ~

Chapter 1: Prologue

Fionn MacConnell slouched in a salvaged confessional booth at the back of a Galway pub called The Vestibule, staring at his untouched pint of Guinness and a shredded photograph of his ex-girlfriend, Renny. It was half nine in the morning.

Fists curled tightly, he closed his eyes and saw her there in the pub again, just hours earlier, fingernails digging into her Amy Winehouse beehive as she screamed a litany of reasons why their relationship was damned:

Ye culchie-brained, lazy-arsed, busker-poor eejit! Ye’re never gonna be famous. Ye haven’t a feckin’ clue where ye’r goin’!

It wasn’t so much her insults that stung him—he’d been called far worse—but the fact that her meltdown interrupted a brilliant session that included his mates and some well-known traditional Irish musicians. Jaysus, it was mortifying! Of course, when you factored in Fionn’s legendary temper, their hostilities erupted into a war of words on the scale of the Battle of Clontarf. (He, of course, represented the Brian Boru side, she—the bloody Vikings.)

Fionn knew by now the tale of this epic breakup was already out there, growing in scale with each kilometer it traveled down the bótharín from the pub. He could imagine the other musicians’ whispers in the distance: "Remember that poor lad who came in second at the All-Ireland fiddle a cúpla years back? Och, the eejit got into a terrible row with his girl. She was after a few pints and created such a commotion! Wanted him to compliment her new dress, but he was in the middle of playin’ the ‘Maid Behind the Bar.’ Well, the evil she-wolf flew into jealous rage, jumped up on a table and started throwin’ things, left and right. Breakin’ pint glasses and mirrors, cursin’ Our Lord. Disgustin’! Took three patrol cars of gardaí to break up the fisticuffs that followed! Feckin’ brilliant. Ye shoulda seen it!"

Fionn sank his head into his hands. Och, how could he have been codded again so easily by a girl? ’Twas yet another bleak chapter in the endless tome of his doomed love life.

They’d met on a warm May afternoon, when he was out walking to clear the peaty fog of last night’s Guinnesses from his brain. He’d wandered by the Spanish Arch and saw Renny in the distance feeding a cluster of swans along the River Corrib. A slight wind teased her towering mane of jet black hair. He was riveted by the sight. When bay breezes lifted her skirt, displaying red fishnet stockings above thigh-high boots, he was overcome by zombie-like lust and marched toward her craving a carnal carnival ride.

He got one, all right. Several months into their tempestuous romance, they tried to make it about more than just sex. She’d even asked him to teach her how to play the bodhrán so she could be part of The Vestibule’s weekly sessions. After two lessons, it was obvious that every bit of rhythm she had in her was best used for something else. The problem was, the more he lingered with her, the less time he spent at his music—an important part of his income and the very heart of his soul. He could no longer afford this love drug, but she was a devil of a habit to break.

After Renny solved that problem by dumping him so publicly last night, he took his pint and crawled into the old confessional booth. The only light within came from a Sacred Heart votive candle that Fionn watched flicker from moonset to sunrise. The publican, an old family friend, locked up and kindly left him inside to collect his thoughts and pride.

Fionn stuck his right thumb into his mouth and nibbled on the fingernail. It was a childhood habit inspired by his namesake, Fionn Mac Cumhaill. The legend goes that young Fionn burned his thumb cooking the salmon of knowledge for the druid poet Finn Eces. When he sucked on his blistered thumb to cool it, he swallowed some of the salmon’s skin stuck to it and received the knowledge of all things, a gift he later used to defeat his adversaries.

Fionn MacConnell ached for such a gift at the moment. What the feck do I do now, he worried. He chewed his fingernail a bit more. That’s it! Fionn flipped open his cell phone and called his Cousin Des in the States. After six rings, it picked up.

Hallo?

Des, it’s me.

Whaaa?

Me, yer Cousin Fionn. Fumbling and crashing noises filled the background for a few seconds.

Fionn, ye feckin’ eejit. It’s feckin’ four in the mornin’.

Sorry, lad. It’s just that … Des ye’ve gotta help me. I gotta get outta here.

Gardaí after ye?

No. Worse. Me girl dumped me in front of the Tuesday night session.

Och. Ye poor lad. That’s bleedin’ awful. Des rubbed his eyes and yawned.

I know. The whole feckin’ pub was watchin’, too. All these trad legends were there, Johnny Pat Derrane, Micko Harnett and even Tommy Kilcooley. Me reputation’s completely banjaxed.

Des snickered.

That Renny’s mental, I tell ye. The craic was so mighty, the music even better. Then she went and spoilt it.

Didn’t I warn ye about stayin’ away from them Claddagh swans? I told ye, they’s enchanted.

I know, Des. I know. And boy, she’s some witch all right! A talented witch, but she’s a feckin’ mental one. Can ye help me lad? I’m dyin’ here. Need a reason to get out of this place.

Des yawned as he tried to come up with a suitable scheme to help his cousin.

This is what ye’r gonna do. Get yer trad band back together and we’ll get ye over here in March for a tour of the States.

A tour of the States, with me band? Brilliant! Och, I’m lovin’ the sound of this, Des. I’m not leavin’ to save face, I’m leavin’ ’cause me American fans are pinin’ for me.

Ye know, Fionn. It’ll be easy money, too. Yanks love nothing better than a good piss-up before St. Patrick’s Day. They start celebratin’ six months to a year before. No word of a lie. Me friend Sean booked a few indie bands at some college campuses in upstate New York last fall. I’ll see if he can book yez a tour.

Fionn hung up and smiled. He’d lost his girl and gained some gigs. Interesting 24 hours, he thought. This working trip—his first to America—would be atonement for his recent sins. He’d no longer take his musical gift for granted. He’d share the gospel of traditional Irish music with the new world.

All I have to do now is put a dacent band together. Fionn emptied his pint, blessed himself and exited the confessional booth.

Chapter 2: Entering The First Fainne

As he took Exit 9 South off Interstate 81, Fionn remembered for a serendipitous moment that Dante Alighieri imagined there were nine circles of hell. He wondered if he was headed for the first circle ahead as a hellish snow squall churned toward the car, extinguishing the glare of sunlight above.

His bandmates—Diarmuid, Peadar and Aisling—were with him, trying to sleep off last night’s fun during the endless, bumpy drive from Boston to upstate New York. Fionn wished he could take a nap, too. Here it was Thursday already of their first week in America, and he was totally knackered from the late nights spent with Des and the band.

Ramp pavement rumbled under the tires as Fionn strayed onto the ridged shoulder. He jerked the steering wheel suddenly to the left, startling the others in time to see the approaching whiteout. Mind yer speed, Fionn, Peadar said from the back seat. The roads could turn slippy fast.

Sorry. Fionn pushed his long black hair out of his eyes and gripped the wheel as he replayed Des’s voice in his mind: It’ll be easy money. Hmm, Fionn wasn’t convinced. So far the band had performed three less than crowded gigs in The Craic, a Southie dive that Des referred to as his office. At the last gig, they met a lone traditional Irish music fan who looked like a female Bob Marley. Unfortunately, the rainbow-haired girl was under the misguided belief that she could play the bodhrán, and her jerky rhythms kept throwing them off the beat. Shades of that evil Renny, he thought.

Fionn felt a sudden chill and shrugged his shoulders. Was he doing the right thing? Was it worth risking the lives of his bandmates on this wintry road into the unknown, just so he could save his busted ego? Besides that, Des’s easy-money promise was fading faster than the sunshine behind them.

"Turn right at the end of the ramp," a disembodied voice from the dashboard said.

Do ye think I should trust this GPS? Fionn asked while making the turn, glancing in the rearview mirror at an empty road hugging the Tioughnioga River behind him. The squall, thicker than a Wicklow Mountains fog, veiled the road ahead quickly. They passed a barely legible sign for Kennedy State Forest. Fionn wondered if that it meant this was an area where Irish immigrants settled. Could this be a good omen? Then he remembered there happened to be a U.S. president by that name, too.

Snow swirled furiously across the windshield, limiting Fionn’s view of the road. No one spoke for a few miles until the GPS broke the silence.

"Turn left onto County Route 392."

I think this is what the Yanks call the boonies, Diarmuid said, drinking a can of Headbanger’s CaffeineX as the car climbed a curvy, wooded road.

What if the GPS could read our minds? Aisling said from the back seat. What if it could sense all of our fears at this moment?

Is that yer inner druid talking to ye again, luv? Peadar asked with a wink.

Aw go on! Tell me. Wouldn’t that freak ye out right now?

The clouds parted and the temperature fell as quickly as the sun behind the steep hills. Snow froze swiftly on the shoulders of the road and Fionn felt the tires glide when the car rolled over icy patches. Des had lent them this car for their tour. He told Fionn he’d had it all checked out, but someone obviously hadn’t inspected the tires thoroughly. Fionn wished he’d realized this before starting up this empty country road.

Diarmuid leaned forward to play with the buttons on the GPS. He clicked the higher elevation view to see how far they were from the college in Dryden. Look, there’s a Page Green Road coming up. Hah! Almost like it knows we’re an Irish band on a pre-St. Patrick’s Day tour.

"See the GPS is reading our minds," Aisling said as she poked Diarmuid between his shoulder blades.

Ow! That hurt! Ye’ve ruined me for me guitar-playin’.

"Och! Ye’ve gone too far."

Are ye talking to Fionn or Aisling? Peadar chirped at the GPS.

"There’s no turning back now, ye eejits."

What’s with this bleedin’ thing gnarling at us? I’m beginning to think Aisling’s right. Fionn tapped a button to return to the street elevation view on the small black dashboard screen as he steered around a long bend.

"Púca ahead. Swerve to avoid collision."

Diarmuid put his face right up to the GPS. Ha-ha, ye cheeky little minx. Ye’ll not be frightenin’ the likes of us.

Fionn! Look out! Aisling screamed. She pointed toward the front of the car as a black pony galloped across their lane. Fionn dug his foot into the brakes but the old tires had no bite on the greasy road. The car fish-tailed across the pavement, then slid down a steep culvert. Metal scraped rock, playing a cacophonous tune in the key of deep-shite major. The car lurched forward and ricocheted back with a thud.

"Jaysus! Everyone OK?" Fionn looked toward the back seat.

Yeah. What the feck just happened? Diarmuid said as he tried to open the front passenger side door.

We nearly killed a Connemara pony to death, Peadar said. Where’d it go?

Aisling folded her arms tightly to stop her fright-induced shivering. "Feck’s sake that GPS was right. It was a púca. Did yez see its glowin’ eyes?"

Fionn ignored her Celtic spirit analysis and focused on the more important matter at hand. Can anyone open a door?

Not this one, Fionn, Diarmuid said.

Mine’s banjaxed, too. Peadar pounded on his door but it wouldn’t budge.

"We’re going to die here!"

Calm down, Aisling, Fionn said. Give it another try. She grabbed the door handle hard and luckily the door swung right open. They clambered out her door and stood in the snowy woods, their steamy breath swirling in the headlights.

So much for our grand tour of the States, Diarmuid snickered.

Better turn off the headlights, Fionn. Conserve the battery in case we have to sleep in there tonight.

Ye’r right, Peadar. Fionn pulled the keys out of the ignition.

Where the feck are we?

"At the foot of a hill where the valley ended," the GPS said.

How can that blasted thing still be speaking to us? Fionn asked.

It’s reading our minds, Aisling said. It’s telling us we’re going on a journey of some sort.

Stop it, Aisling. Ye'r giving me the willies with all yer druid-speak, Peadar said as he stepped back from the car.

Didn’t ye hear it yerself, Peadar? That wasn’t me speaking just now.

Maybe it’s like a Magic 8-Ball? Let’s ask a question. Diarmuid stroked his goatee. Right then, oh magical GPS, tell us how do we get out of this mess?

Silence. Just then a flicker of headlights cut through the forest up ahead.

We’re going to be saved! Aisling hopped up and down clapping her hands together. But the pickup truck’s driver didn’t notice them and roared past. Her glee tumbled into a frown. We’re going to die. Right here. Within hours. They’ll have to pry our frozen bodies off this ground.

"Help is on the way."

Fionn raised his eyebrows at the others.

Maybe we’re on some prank reality show, Peadar said as he glanced overhead at the pine branches. Are there TV cams hidden in these trees? We could be on Power O’Toole’s ‘Laugh Shanty’ right now. He waved (just in case).

Diarmuid snickered and walked toward the car for another look. I’ll have a sip of what yer drinkin’ there, Peadar boyo.

If that bloody thing talks to us again, Fionn said, I’m gonna start runnin’ down the hill.

Headlights flashed at them from the other direction. They saw a tow truck coming up the hill. All four of them ran to the side of the road and waved at the truck as if they were drowning, but it sailed past.

If they don’t find us fast enough, a pack of wild coyotes will eat our frozen bodies…, Aisling said, her words drifting off into the silent forest.

Anyone have paper and pen? Peadar asked. I want to leave a note for me family back in Mayo. Fionn rolled his eyes.

A third time they saw headlights approach. It was the tow truck returning down the hill. This time the driver stopped when they waved.

You folks in some trouble? the driver yelled from his cab.

Typical observant Yank, Diarmuid muttered. The man got out and crossed the road to their car.

Thanks for helpin’, Fionn said. A pony just ran across the road and I swerved to avoid it. Next thing I knew, we were in this ditch and there the pony was. Gone.

A pony you say, the man said, giving Fionn a look as if he thought this kid might be drunk. A big ’un?

Smallish, black.

A Connemara pony, I’d say, Peadar chimed in.

Is that so? The man winked at Aisling as he examined the back end of the car. Looks like you’ve busted the axle son. I could give you a lift into town. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to have anyone look at this. This bein’ a foreign-made car, dunno if Butch has the parts. My name’s Virgil by the way. Virgil Keane.

Are ye Irish, with a name like Keane? Peadar asked, smiling broadly.

I’m American, but I’ve been told our people came from there.

That’s where we’re from. We’re musicians. Over here on tour, Fionn said.

Well I’ll be dipped. That so? What sort of music do y’all play?

Traditional Irish.

You mean like ‘Danny Boy’?

They all looked at each other and sighed.

Not exactly.

Well, don’t know about you all, but I’m gettin’ pretty damn cold here. We can discuss this more in the truck. Let’s get your car up on the bed.

They grabbed their instruments and suitcases out of the trunk, crossed the road gingerly and climbed into the roomy, rusty cab of Virgil’s truck.

Wait, forgot something, Fionn said as he went back over to the car and grabbed the GPS system, rolling up the cord and sticking it in his coat pocket. When he passed in front of the truck, he noticed its license plate was IFRN317. He chuckled. It looked like an abbreviation for the Irish word for hell, ifreann.

Did yez see that creek over here? Peadar said. Lucky we weren’t goin’ downhill when that púca crossed. We might be drowned.

Fionn slid in next to Aisling and draped his arm around her so he could fit on the seat. She smelled like that perfume made from Burren wildflowers. Lovely. He took in a deep breath and she smiled at him. OK